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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29882319">Their Lives</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamOnToast/pseuds/JamOnToast'>JamOnToast</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds Soulmate AUs [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fluff and Angst, References to Canon, Soulmates</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 03:15:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>867</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29882319</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamOnToast/pseuds/JamOnToast</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>the story of spencer and his soulmate's lives together.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spencer Reid/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds Soulmate AUs [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197065</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Their Lives</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>also posted on my tumblr (pumpkin-stars)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>ARE YOU OKAY?</span>
  </em>
  <span> The question was an almost constant presence on his forearm, fading away at times but almost always freshened up every morning. His answers varied. Sometimes there was a hastily scribbled </span>
  <em>
    <span>busy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, other times his forearm would be covered in ink from long conversations - his words always purple, hers in whatever colour was in her hand at the time. His chicken-scratch beside her spidery loops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was an artist, and he would often find small doodles littering his skin in random places - usually after his answer of </span>
  <em>
    <span>rough case</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or several days with no response. He tried his best to always reply, but sometimes he wouldn’t - when his job got rough and needed all his focus, when he lost sleep and lost track of time, or was otherwise too mentally or physically drained to scrawl on his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mornings after those days were always his favourites - when he was still half asleep and moved a hand to rub his eyes, and his palms were covered in flowers and rainbows - and on one occasion, rising to find an incredibly detailed portrait of Edgar Allan Poe surrounded by ravens, covering his torso.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, there were other times when he couldn’t respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was kidnapped and tortured and his arms were tied, sleeves rolled down so he couldn’t even see whatever sweet message she’d left for him…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he’d got so high that he didn’t know which way was up, never mind where all his limbs were…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he got exposed to a strain of anthrax and was unconscious for a day - though Morgan had covered his right arm with explanations and reassurances that he wasn’t okay but he</span>
  <em>
    <span> would be soon</span>
  </em>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The time when he was shot in the leg. Another string of reassurances that he was fine, that he was so sorry her skin had been marked in such an ugly way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d given them her first permanent drawing. A tattoo of her favourite animal. A bullet wound became a cat, its tail curling around his knee as it slept, smiling up at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d got his own tattoo soon afterward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan had seen it - just once - and had assumed the deep red carnation was just another gift from </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>, none of his team ever considering that he might have got it done willingly - a message shared between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d asked him what it meant that night, having discovered the bloom on her hip as she changed for bed, and he explained various aspects of floriography to her, their arms and legs coated in conversation, keeping them up well into the early hours of the morning. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>deep love and affection</span>
  </em>
  <span> signified by the petals kept secret from all but themselves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The messages not meant for him - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Milk</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Call mom!,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the phone number for the local veterinarian and the tiny cat scratches on their calves, the smudged paint and ink stains littering their fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each mark she left him made him smile, no matter how small.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were odd, they knew. Most soulmates, as soon as they were able, would devise a way to meet - a phone call, emails, some even travelling around the globe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d never bothered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soulmates had been finding each other for centuries - for millennia - before technology had advanced. She was meant for him, and him for her, and that meant that they would meet one day, regardless of the effort they put in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing he knew - at least pertaining to her location - was that she lived in DC, like him. That was all they needed to know. Fate put them together, and together they would be - one day. Until then, communicating through their skin, leaving secrets scrawled on stomachs, leaving notes and doodles on arms and thighs, little messages for themselves and nobody else… it was all they wanted, all they needed…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a week with no response to her questions. A series of tiny scars appearing in the bends of their arms… His sleeves only ever rolled halfway up his forearms, hiding his guilt and shame and </span>
  <em>
    <span>weakness</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two weeks later: another tattoo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, a small clump of trees, each trunk extending upward toward his shoulder, the roots crawling down to his wrist. A message in blue ink scribbled beneath. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No matter the change in seasons, the roots still grow.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He got that tattooed the next day, vowed to himself that that was the only needle he’d willingly put to his skin ever again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kept that promise forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After they met and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>ARE YOU OKAY?</span>
  </em>
  <span> only appeared when he was away on a long case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tiny scars he’d given them both as he’d carved into the skin near his ankles - the guards of the prison taking away his pens and giving him no escape from the confines of that six by eight foot cell… His nails raw with the effort of clawing away at his body, the messy, disgusting, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span> etched forever upon them both, a tattooed </span>
  <em>
    <span>love you too</span>
  </em>
  <span> beneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wore themselves on each others skin, adding to their stories each day, a tapestry of scars and images, of fears and comforts, of pure, unadulterated </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
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